


Every Now and Then I Fall Apart

by AgentStannerShipper



Series: Puzzle Pieces [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Discussions of Suicide, Eating Disorders, Greg is a Good Boyfriend, Hints of Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Mentions of Canonical Character Death, Nightmares, Sherlock Series 4 Spoilers, Therapy, but also some fluff, but he is very stressed, dont worry no one does anything, mycroft hates nicknames and confrontation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-01
Updated: 2017-02-01
Packaged: 2018-09-21 06:40:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,832
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9536357
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AgentStannerShipper/pseuds/AgentStannerShipper
Summary: Mycroft is having nightmares. Greg finds out what happened at Sherrinford.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Total Eclipse of the Heart by Bonnie Tyler.  
> So this is a long one, guys, and the cast is expanding. It's getting a bit intense, so if you feel there's something I should tag, let me know.  
> As usual, not Brit-picked, so let me know if there are any problems.

Greg was a light sleeper. He had to be, considering that at any moment the phone could ring and his job could pull him out to a crime scene halfway across the city, even in the middle of the night. It was beneficial to his work to be up at a moment’s notice just from the sound of his phone ringing. It was less beneficial when Sherlock was bored and started sending him irritated texts about cold cases at two in the morning.

Getting dumped on the floor was a much better wake-up call than his ringtone.

Greg jerked awake, still twisted up in the bedspread and with the back of his head smarting where it collided with the floor. He untangled himself enough to sit up, his heart racing as his surveyed the darkness. The only sources of light in the room were the faint moonlight slinking through a gap in the curtains and the red numbers on Mycroft’s alarm clock, which ungraciously informed Greg that it was about a quarter after one. He got to his feet, balling up the comforter that had journeyed to the floor with him, and was preparing the throw it back over the bed so he could go back to sleep when a noise stopped him.

It was a distinct whimpering sound, like a wounded animal, and Greg dropped the blanket instantly, fumbling for the switch at the base of the lamp on the nightstand. He blinked at the flare of light when his fingers found their mark, and the room swam into view.

The source of the noise was obvious, even for someone without the Holmes genius; Mycroft was curled up defensively in the center of the bed. He was trembling, and every so often a quiet sob slipped out of his lips. His mouth was moving, and Greg thought he might be saying something, but save for the cries no sound came out.

“Mycroft?” Greg asked hesitantly. He knelt on the bed and reached out, then hesitated. Deciding to chance it, he settled his hand lightly on Mycroft’s shoulder.

The effect was immediate: Mycroft lashed out violently, shoving at Greg, who nearly toppled off the bed again before catching his balance. The trembling became more violent as Greg watched. Wincing, he braced himself and shook Mycroft’s shoulder. “Mycroft, wake up.”

Mycroft’s eyes snapped open, hazy and confused, and it was clear he didn’t know where he was when he begged, “Please, don’t hurt me.” His voice was broken, and Greg’s heart mirrored the tone.

“Mycroft, love, it’s just me,” he said, trying to sound soothing. “You’re at home. It’s just a dream.”

It took a minute, but as Mycroft fully breached wakefulness, the whimpering stopped. The trembling died down but didn’t fade entirely, and he was breathing like he’d run a race. “I’m alright,” he managed, sounding anything but.

“No you’re not,” Greg said. “Can I touch you?”

Mycroft nodded silently, and Greg gathered the younger man up in his arms, squeezing tightly. He stroked Mycroft’s hair, which was thoroughly mussed from sleep, and kissed the top of his head. Greg waited until Mycroft gathered himself, the shaking fully subsiding and his breath evening out, before he asked, “Do you get nightmares often?”

Ashamed was the only way to describe Mycroft’s expression, and it was clear that he was using their position to his advantage to avoid looking at Greg. “They’re…fairly consistent,” he said. “Just about every night since Sherlock broke in. There were a few before then, but they were infrequent and…less intense.”

“Every night?” Greg asked incredulously.

“More or less,” Mycroft confirmed. He fidgeted slightly but made no move to pull out of Greg’s hold.

“Why didn’t you say anything?” Greg asked. “I was here the other night. I could have...” He trailed off. He wasn’t actually sure what he could have done.

“You didn’t need to know,” Mycroft answered. “They’re just nightmares.”

Greg laughed, although he didn’t find it very funny. “Love, if you’re pushing me out of bed because of them, I’d say they’re more than ordinary nightmares.” He was silent for a long moment, and when Mycroft didn’t move to say anything he asked, “What are they about?”

“Different things,” Mycroft said evasively.

“Anything to do with Eurus?”

“Leave it, Gregory.”

“Alright,” Greg conceded. He pulled away, picking the blanket up off the floor and spreading it out across the bed again. He climbed back into bed and flicked off the light. In the dark, his fingers quested out for Mycroft, and when he found him Greg pulled him back into an embrace. Mycroft went willingly, tucking his face into Greg’s shoulder. It was dark, so Greg couldn’t see much, but he did feel prickles of wetness seeping into the pajama sleeve.

He was almost back to sleep when Mycroft whispered, “Yes.”

“What?” He kept his voice equally soft, not wanting to break the moment.

“They’re about Eurus. Well…no, I suppose they’re all about her in some way or another, it’s just…” He sighed. “I keep dreaming about what she made me…what she made _us_ do. And sometimes it’s not even that, sometimes I’ll be dreaming and she’ll turn up and it won’t be behind some screen, she’ll be _there_ , she’ll be _right there_ and…” He sobbed, and Greg ran his hand up and down Mycroft’s back, keeping the pressure light. After a few breaths, Mycroft continued, “Sometimes she’ll be holding a gun to my head, or Sherlock, or John and it’s me or them and I can’t…I can’t move and she just _laughs_ and there’s so much blood. So…much.” Another gasp, then a steadying deep breath. “Sometimes Sherlock shoots me. He listens and he _shoots me_ and sometimes he laughs.” His fingers wrapped tightly around Greg’s forearm, and Greg tightened his grip, grounding Mycroft. “Sometimes the dreams are here. Sometimes she’s broken in, it’s really her.” He laughed, and it almost sounded real. “Sometimes it’s just clowns.”

Greg didn’t understand half of what Mycroft was saying. He had only gotten an overview of what had happened with Eurus, no specifics, and he wasn’t sure precisely what had gone down between John, Sherlock, Mycroft, and Eurus in the hellscape she’d made of Sherrinford. He _really_ didn’t get the clowns. But he let Mycroft talk, and he made a mental note to ask someone about it later, whether that was Mycroft when he was feeling better or Sherlock. He was hesitant to go to John. The soldier didn’t seem particularly enamored with Mycroft at the moment, which was understandable to some degree, although Greg didn’t agree with the severity of it. Instead, he just said, “I’m here. I’m here and I’m not going to let anything hurt you, alright love?”

“Alright.”

“Go back to sleep. I’ll keep you safe.”

Mycroft drifted back under quickly, but Greg found himself watching the clock numbers change for over an hour before sleep found him again.

When he woke up in the morning, the curtains had been thrown open and Mycroft wasn’t in bed. Greg was lying on his stomach, and he propped himself up on one forearm, feeling the divot in the mattress next to him with the other hand. It was still slightly warm, indicating the Mycroft couldn’t have been out of bed for long.

“You look good like that,” Mycroft’s voice came in from the doorway, and Greg rolled over to see his boyfriend entering the room, still in pajamas. Mycroft climbed back into bed next to him and continued, “You’re very sexy when your hair gets all spiked up like that.”

“Yeah?” Greg grinned at him, and Mycroft leaned down and gave him a soft kiss.

“Definitely,” he murmured when they parted.

Greg peered around Mycroft’s shoulder, checking the time. He still had a little while before he needed to be up and on his way to work. He stroked one hand down Mycroft’s arm, “What would you say if I offered to make you breakfast in bed? I think Anthea left stuff for pancakes.”

Maybe he was making progress or maybe he just felt like he’d disappointed Greg last night by not being as okay as he let on, but either way, Mycroft immediately responded, “As long as you stay here with me.”

Greg kissed him again, then got up, stretching. “Relax,” he said. “I’ll be back soon.”

About half an hour later, Greg returned with a breakfast tray. He’d found it stashed away, collecting dust, and he hoped Mycroft wouldn’t mind him using it. On the tray were two plates with a stack of pancakes each and a little row of banana slices. Mycroft laughed when he saw his, because Greg had arranged the banana into the shape of a smiley face.

“You are ridiculous,” he told Greg.

“And you love it,” Greg shot back.

They settled in together, and Greg watched Mycroft pick at his plate. It wasn’t quite like the previous night’s dinner; Mycroft looked lost in thought rather than like he was avoiding the plate in front of him.

“Penny for your thoughts?” Greg asked after a minute.

For a second he thought Mycroft might make a joke, something about Greg not being able to afford them, but his face was serious when he asked, without looking at Greg, “Last night. Why did you call me…?” He seemed unable to finish the sentence.

Greg cast about his memory, trying to remember what Mycroft was referencing. After a moment, he got it. “Love?” he asked. “It’s a term of endearment.”

“I know _that_ ,” Mycroft said. “It’s just very...intimate.” His eyes were fixed firmly on his hands, and he was absently poking the edge of his pancakes with his fork.

“Does it bother you?” Worry shot through Greg, and he wondered if he’d overstepped his bounds. “Because I can stop if it does.”

“No!” Mycroft said quickly, and then blushed. “I’m just not used to...well, any form of affection, really.”

“I already told you I love you,” Greg said. “In fact, I kind of prefaced this whole thing with it.” He gestured between the two of them. “I don’t expect you to say it back. I know this is all new to you. But I do love you, and I’d like to be able to say that.”

“Far be it from me to stop you,” Mycroft said softly, a smile playing at the corner of his lips. Greg leaned over, turning his head with one hand and kissing him, first on the lips and then on the forehead.

“I love you, Mycroft Holmes,” he whispered. Mycroft blushed, and Greg grinned. He pulled away. “Now eat your breakfast. I slaved over a hot stove for that.”

Mycroft obeyed, and Greg felt at leave to dive into his own food. He wanted to ask Mycroft more about his nightmares, but he didn’t want to spoil the mood, and if he didn’t get a move on he really would be late for work. He had to swing by his flat as it was.

Greg didn't stay much longer. He waited until they were both done eating, marveling that Mycroft finished the plate without any needling or begging from Greg, and then he slipped away to go to work. “I'll call you later,” he told Mycroft on his way out. On a whim, he added, “Love you.” The blush from Mycroft was definitely worth it.

The upside to solving a murder was not needing to traipse around London all day, but the downside was masses of paperwork. About ten minutes before his lunch break officially started, Greg started glancing at his phone, debating. When he didn’t touch the reports for over five minutes, Greg gave it up for a lost cause, his concentration thoroughly ruined. He reached for his phone, fingers hovering over the contact for a long time before he gave in, feeling guilty, and sent a text.

Can we talk? - GL

The response was almost immediate.

Mycroft or murder? - SH

Mycroft - GL

I’ll meet you in Hyde Park. - SH

Given the fact that Sherlock almost exclusively communicated by texts, Greg wondered if he should feel honored that he was getting an audience. Mostly, he just felt anxious. Throwing on his coat, he strolled out of the office.

“Going out, boss?” Donovan asked as he passed her.

“Lunch break,” he responded. “Just need some fresh air.”

Ten minutes later, he was entering Hyde Park, scanning for Sherlock. The detective was tall, and his black coat made him easily distinguishable from the brightly colored trees and playground equipment. He wasn’t alone.

“Lestrade,” John greeted him when he approached. “What are you doing here?” He glanced around, clearly scanning for danger. “You’re not on a case, are you?” He instinctively clutched Rosie a little tighter.

“Of course not,” Sherlock cut in. “He’s clearly come alone, and it’s obviously his lunch break.” He looked over at his companions, “Why don’t you take Rosie for a walk? Lestrade and I have something we need to discuss.”

John looked confused, but he obeyed, cooing softly to Rosie as he did and pointing out interesting things for the baby to look at. Greg was amused, because mostly Rosie looked over John’s shoulder, watching Sherlock as her father carried her away. She lifted one chubby hand in a sort of wave, and Sherlock waved back at her before he turned to Greg. “So. Mycroft.”

Greg deliberated. Now that he was here, he had doubts. It felt an awful lot like going behind Mycroft’s back. Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Stop feeling guilty,” he admonished. “It’s annoying. Mycroft will understand if you went to me with his wellbeing in mind. Besides, it’s not like the two of you didn’t conspire about me behind my back for years.”

Greg had to admit the truth of that statement, but he hesitated a second longer before he asked, “What happened, exactly?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes again, “Brilliant, Inspector. Would you like to be a bit more specific?”

“Let's start with you breaking into Mycroft's house,” Greg said.

“I'd hardly call it breaking in,” Sherlock said. “I had a key.” He glanced at Greg, “Are you going to give it back? I assume Mycroft's given you your own by now.”

“No, he hasn't,” Greg retorted, relishing the look of surprise on Sherlock's face, “and you're not going to get it back, at least not until I have my answers. What did you do to him?”

“I discovered I had a sister,” Sherlock said. “One I had no recollection of, but who, it appeared, Mycroft knew about. My brother keeps his secrets well. I knew he wouldn't reveal anything unless under great distress, and with John's help I staged...I suppose you could call it something of a prank. It involved a threatening message in Mycroft's favorite film, a young girl he only ever saw in shadow, and a clown. Mycroft has always been terrified of clowns. Shoddy horror film technique, but effective. By the time I showed myself, I had confirmed my suspicions: I did indeed have a sister, and Mycroft did know about her.”

Greg stared at Sherlock, incredulous. “So you knowingly made Mycroft feel completely unsafe _in his home_ to, what, prove a point? Couldn't you have just _asked_?”

Sherlock had the decency to look at least a little ashamed. “He wouldn't have-”

“Wouldn't have told you?” Greg interrupted. “If you said 'hey, by the way, some woman claiming to be our sister held John at gunpoint, what's up with that?’ do you honestly think he'd just brush it off?”

“Yes!” Sherlock argued, but he did look uneasy. “His best-kept secret? Mycroft would never have told me the truth on his own.”

“Maybe not,” Greg said. “But what you did to him was incredibly cruel. He's still having nightmares about it.”

The guilty look on Sherlock's face soothed Greg's anger a bit. He sighed. “What about the rest of it? That hellhouse Eurus put you through.”

“No one told you?”

“Not the specifics, no. Some of it I can put together on my own. There are only so many conclusions you can draw from a dead body.” Sherlock opened his mouth, looking like he was going to correct Greg, who steamrolled over him. “I want to know _how_ it happened, not just _what_ happened.”

“All of it?”

“Everything Mycroft was involved in, if you don’t mind.” A hint of the annoyance he was feeling leaked into his voice.

Sherlock considered Greg carefully, and he did his best not to shift uncomfortably under the younger man’s gaze. “Look,” Greg said, “you want me to look after Mycroft. I’ve been doing my best, but I can’t really help him unless I have the whole story. So, do you want your brother to be okay or not?”

Sherlock nodded. “Alright. Step by step, then?”

“If you please. And without showing off, if it’s not too much trouble.”

Ever the drama queen, the look Sherlock shot him was a perfect blend of haughty, offended, and innocent. But he did begin, “The first trial was incredibly basic. Eurus wanted me to choose either John or Mycroft to shoot the governor. If they failed to do so, the governor's wife would die.” Sherlock looked at his feet, and then admitted, “I initially chose Mycroft. John had enough blood on his hands. I couldn’t...I couldn’t make him kill an innocent man in cold blood.”

“But Mycroft was fine?” Greg had to temper down his anger again.

The look in Sherlock’s eyes was equal parts distressed and defiant. “One of them had to do it. I admit, I may have been a bit angry with Mycroft. He had blood on his hands anyway, sitting behind his desk and telling other people to go into battle. But Mycroft couldn’t do it. Couldn’t even bring himself to touch the gun. And neither he nor John could shoot the governor, so the governor shot himself in an attempt to save his wife. It failed, of course. Eurus had made the parameters quite clear.”

“Christ,” Greg breathed.

“Mycroft threw up,” Sherlock said. “I hadn’t known he was capable of feeling that strongly about something.”

“He’s human,” Greg said bitterly, “of course he has feelings.”

The guilt flashed across Sherlock’s face again, and he continued, “Next she had us solve a murder. We had to condemn a man to fall to his death. If we chose the wrong one…” He shook his head. “Mycroft wouldn’t play. He said he didn’t want to be part of Eurus’s games. Thinking back, it’s obvious he was terrified, but in the heat of the moment all I could think about was ensuring we made it out alive.” Sherlock’s eyes went to John, off in the distance. “We had to be soldiers. That’s what John and I kept saying. Mycroft’s not a soldier. He never has been.”

“What happened next?”

“There was a coffin. I had to make Molly Hooper say that she loved me.” There was clear distress on his face now, not muted by anything else.

Greg agreed. “That’s horrid.” He liked Molly, and everyone knew how upsetting her crush on Sherlock was for her.

“I know,” Sherlock said. “I didn’t want to...lead her on any more than I had in the past. She deserves far better than that.” He shook himself. “Mycroft wasn’t terribly involved in that one, but it couldn’t have been easy for him to watch. And afterwards...I threw a bit of a fit.”

“Understandable,” Greg said. There was something still nagging him. “What about...I mean, Mycroft mentioned something about you listening to him? And, I don’t know, shooting him because of it? What’s that all about?”

Sherlock winced. “That would be the final trial we went through together. I had to make a choice. If Eurus had her way, only two of us would be leaving the room. I had to kill someone: my brother or...or my best friend.”

Greg pressed his fist to his mouth, feeling abruptly ill. When he came back to himself he said, “But obviously that didn’t happen. So what…?” He couldn’t think how to end the question.

“Mycroft said some horrible things about John.” Sherlock looked as queasy as Greg felt. “For a moment I wondered if it was some sort of payback for John’s role in…” He trailed off, and then continued, “But it became apparent very quickly that he was goading me. In telling me that John was the obvious choice to die, that he was useless to me, Mycroft was trying to make it easier for me to shoot him instead.”

“No.” The nausea was back, worse this time, and Greg had to take several deep breaths and even close his eyes. He was aware he was probably shaking, but he couldn’t care about that. Christ, no _wonder_ Mycroft had been so shaken up.

“Yes,” Sherlock said softly. “He...he even joked about it, when I pointed the gun at him. Said he didn’t have much of a heart so I’d have to aim carefully. But I couldn’t...I couldn’t do it.” Sherlock cleared his throat. “Anyway. I got us out of there. Threatened suicide. Eurus wanted revenge too badly to let me die.” He didn’t sound entirely confident. “After that, you know the rest. Mycroft got locked in Eurus’s cell. He didn’t know what had happened to me and John.”

“No wonder he’s having nightmares,” Greg murmured. “I’m surprised he’s not doing worse.”

“He might be,” Sherlock said gravely. “My brother loves to pretend he’s fine, even when the world’s crashing down around his ears.”

Greg’s hands clenched involuntarily, and he vowed to himself that he was going to get Mycroft into therapy if it was the last thing he ever did. “Thank you,” he finally said to Sherlock.

“I should be saying that to you,” Sherlock responded, throwing Greg for a loop. He continued, “You’re doing more for him than anyone has in a long time.”

“Someone ought to,” Greg answered. “He deserves it.” He checked his watch, realizing his lunch break was almost over. “I’ve got to-”

“Get back to work,” Sherlock finished for him. “I’ll tell John and Rosie you said goodbye.”

“I’ll be seeing you, then.” Greg turned and began walking in the direction of his work. He could feel Sherlock’s eyes on his back, and he wondered if the ability to see through people was encoded somewhere in the Holmes’ genes.

He swallowed hard around a lump in his throat and, the moment he was out of earshot, pulled out his phone and dialed Mycroft’s number. It only rang twice before his boyfriend picked up, and before Mycroft could say anything Greg rushed out, “I love you.”

There was a pause, and then, “Gregory? Are you alright? You sound...upset.”

“I’ve just been,” Greg took a breath, pinching the bridge of his nose. He was a police officer, for God’s sake. He dealt with horrible things on a regular basis. He wasn’t going to cry, he wasn’t. “I’ve just been talking to Sherlock,” he finally managed.

“Ah,” the understanding in Mycroft’s voice just made it worse.

“Christ, love.” Greg wondered if, somehow, he was feeling more overwhelmed than Mycroft was. “How the hell are you even functioning after all that?”

“Lots of repression and impulse control,” Mycroft said dryly. “Although I am aware you don't approve of either method.”

It took Greg a minute to understand that Mycroft was referring to his problematic relationship with food as well as the emotionless facade Mycroft favored. “You tried to get your own brother to shoot you and you made _jokes_ about it.”

“I wasn't about to let John Watson die. Eurus had already taken Sherlock’s best friend once. I couldn't allow her to do it again, especially not knowing how my brother feels about him.”

It was the matter-of-fact tone that got to Greg. “This is why I think you need to talk to someone, My. You say stuff like this, like you don't matter as much as everybody else, and you treat yourself like shit and you don't deal with anything and it _scares me_ , it really does, because you matter to _me_. And I'm really worried, love, I'm terrified that one day I'm going to come over to find you dead, either because your body can't handle the shit you're putting it through or because you've decided you can't handle living anymore.”

“ _I would never_ ,” the emphatic response surprised Greg. “I would never do that to myself, Gregory. I've never gotten that low.”

“Well there's a first time for everything,” Greg snapped. He sighed, took a slow breath, and said very quietly, “I'm sorry. I didn't want to yell at you. I'm just so...so _scared_. I don't know what to do. I don't know how to help.”

There was silence on the other end for a very long time, until, just as Greg approached the doors to Scotland Yard, Mycroft said, “I will talk to you later, Gregory.” He hung up and Greg stopped in his tracks, staring at the phone. His stomach twisted unpleasantly, and for the first time he wished he had actually gone to get lunch on his lunch break instead of poking into Mycroft's business. Where exactly was he supposed to draw the line between concerned boyfriend and just being nosy?

Greg was out of sorts for the rest of the day, and it was obvious to his team that something was wrong. He was unfocused, unproductive, and unresponsive.

“Greg.”

He looked up from his desk to see Donovan in the doorway. “What do you need, Sally?” he asked.

She raised her eyebrows, “I called your name four times. Everything alright?”

“Fine,” he grunted, knowing how unconvincing it sounded.

Donovan’s expression remained skeptical, but she just said, “We just got a call. Potential shots fired.”

Greg was on his feet in an instant, “What are we waiting for?” He moved to pass her, but she stopped him with one hand on his chest. He frowned at her.

“All due respect, boss,” she said, “but I don't think you're in any condition to be at a crime scene.”

“I'm _fine_ , Sally,” Greg insisted.

“No, you're not,” she responded. “I haven't seen you like this since you were going through your divorce. My advice? Take the rest of the day off, go home, sort out whatever this is and come back to us tomorrow.”

“That your advice as my friend or my coworker?”

“Both.” Sally’s expression left little room for argument. Greg wanted to protest, but he knew she was right.

“I'll see you tomorrow,” he said wearily.

She smiled sympathetically and let him pass. Greg stalked out, the chilly air hitting him harder than it had earlier, and made for home. He didn't even reach the end of the block when a black car pulled up beside him and the door opened. No one got out, so Greg took the hint.

As he slid into the backseat, he groused, “A phone call would have worked.”

But, of course, Mycroft wasn't in the car. The only other occupant was Anthea, her legs crossed primly and her eyes fixed on her mobile. Her eyes flicked up to meet his when he spoke, and then back down to her texting.

“Did he send you to fetch me?” Greg asked, probably a bit more harshly than he should have, considering Anthea hadn't done anything wrong. “Or are branching out and practicing your kidnapping?”

“Mycroft sent the car,” she responded. She set her phone in her lap and looked at him. “I stopped by to see him. He’s been...pacing.” The twist on the last word told Greg that pacing wasn’t something Mycroft usually did.

“I think we had a fight,” he said.

Anthea raised an eyebrow, “You think?”

Greg shrugged, “Well, it’s hard to tell with him. Pretty much all the fights I’ve ever had turned into shouting matches or throwing things. When Mycroft doesn’t like something, he just sort of...closes off.”

“He does that,” Anthea agreed. Her phone buzzed, and she checked it briefly, sending a quick response and setting it back down again. “I think he thinks it’s better than the alternative.”

Greg frowned, “And what’s that?”

The look Anthea shot him was the same ‘isn’t it obvious?’ expression that Greg had been getting all week. “You’re not the first, you know,” she said. “It might seem like it sometimes, but he’s not as inexperienced as he comes across.”

Until that moment, it hadn’t really occurred to Greg that Mycroft had partners before him. The way he spoke certainly indicated that, assuming Anthea was telling the truth, the boyfriends of the past were really, really far in the past. He felt a bit stupid, but he did reassure himself that he had never actually thought about it, so he hadn’t really come to a conclusion one way or the other. “Did you know the other ones, then?” he asked.

Anthea shook her head, “Before my time, I’m afraid. I just know what Mycroft has told me.”

“Damn,” Greg managed to joke, “I was hoping you could tell me how I measure up.”

The look in Anthea’s eyes killed all the humor Greg had scrounged up. “The bar is not particularly high.”

“Oh.”

“Mmm.”

They pulled up to the house, but Greg didn’t get out of the car. He stared at the front door, a lump rising in his throat. He almost forgot Anthea was sitting next to him until she nudged him with the toe of her shoe and asked, “Well? You going in?”

Greg swallowed hard and nodded. “Into the breach,” he muttered to himself as he got out. The car door shut behind him like a gunshot. Or maybe he was just more sensitive at the moment. Every step towards the front door felt like dragging his feet through molasses. He wondered if he was imagining the air getting thinner. God, he wanted a cigarette.

He tried the knob carefully, as if expecting the metal to burn him, and found it locked. He dug the key out of his pocket, but before he could use it, the door swung open.

Physically, Mycroft appeared completely fine. His grey button down was tucked into his trousers, but he was minus a waistcoat. It was the look on his face that struck Greg as being deeply wrong; despite being more or less okay when Greg had left in the morning, Mycroft looked like he had aged years in only hours. There was a crease where it was apparent his brow had been furrowed, and his eyes were a little glazed and very lost. The look alone was enough to make Greg want to forget everything leading up to that point and just hug Mycroft until he didn’t look so sad.

“I can’t do it, Gregory,” Mycroft said very quietly. He looked completely defeated. “I’ve thought about it for hours now, trying to convince myself, and I just can’t…can’t do it.”

Greg’s heart lodged itself comfortably in his throat. It was only their first fight. Mycroft couldn’t. He couldn’t be breaking up with Greg already. “What are you talking about?” he managed.

“You want me to see a therapist,” Mycroft, thankfully, did not have the ‘it should have been obvious’ face, but Greg would almost rather that. “I know I should, but I can’t. I’m frightened, Gregory.” He laughed quietly. “Admitting that is harder than you might think, but it’s true. I’m scared.”

“Why?”

“You know what happened to John,” Mycroft said. “I keep wondering…what if I agree to go, and it’s her?”

Greg reached out towards Mycroft, but his hand faltered when the other man tensed, and he let it drop back to his side. “That’s an irrational fear, love,” Greg tried. “You’ve got her locked up, proper this time.”

“I know it’s irrational,” Mycroft said, “but that doesn’t stop me from fearing it.” He shook his head. “My own mind. For so long I trusted it completely, and now it is betraying me in the worst possible ways.”

“That’s _why_ you need help,” this time Greg didn’t stop, he took Mycroft’s hand and squeezed gently. “I’m sure Anthea can find someone you can trust. Between you and me, she’s an excellent judge of character.”

Mycroft managed a tiny smile at the joke, but his grip on Greg’s hand was so tight his knuckles were white. “How about one meeting?” Greg bargained. “You just try one meeting. Anthea can come with to make sure they’re trustworthy, and I can be there for support if you want me to be.”

“One meeting?”

“One meeting.”

“And I can stop if I don’t like it?”

Greg gave a small laugh, “I don’t expect you’ll _like it_ , love. But it’ll help. And if you go to one meeting, and you can’t stand the thought of going to another, I won’t force you.” And he wouldn’t…but he had a feeling that if Mycroft could cross that first hurdle, Greg wouldn’t need to make him keep going.

Finally, Mycroft nodded. Greg breathed a sigh of relief. “Thank you,” he murmured, pulling Mycroft forward to press a gentle kiss to his cheek. He rested his forehead against Mycroft’s, and the other man’s grip on his hand loosened. A second later, Mycroft’s phone went off, and they separated. Mycroft frowned down at his mobile before his face broke out into a smile. “It’s Anthea,” he said by way of explanation. “Apparently, she has been observing us. She was sending me some potential options for a therapist.”

Greg glanced around, looking for the camera. “How did she see us?”

“I have a security system.”

Greg made a resolution to stop asking stupid questions. He looked around again, and then said, “So what are the chances you’ll let me in?”

“Oh,” Mycroft blushed, apparently just realizing that they hadn’t moved from the doorway. He stepped back. “As I said before, Gregory, you’re always welcome here.”

Greg crossed the threshold, pecking Mycroft’s cheek as he moved past. “Then hope you never get tired of having me around, because I intend to take you up on that for a very long time.”

“I hope you do,” Mycroft’s smile, genuine and bright, made Greg’s heart flip painfully in his chest.

To combat it, he teased, “You say that now, My, but just wait-“

Mycroft cut him off, smile disappearing, “You called me that earlier, on the phone.”

“Yeah…” Greg said slowly, a question in his voice.

Mycroft pursed his lips. “Don’t.”

Unsure where the sudden cold air had come from, Greg nodded, “Yeah, sure.” Part of him wanted to ask. But a larger part, the part that was very tired and just wanted to cuddle with his boyfriend, told him to leave it be. There would be plenty of time to find out later. After all, it wasn’t like Greg was going anywhere.

**Author's Note:**

> The timeline of this series is kind of important. I figure if The Lying Detective included Sherlock's birthday (generally agreed to be the 6th of January), that gives me about two weeks until the end of The Final Problem (not including end montage and violin concert), so Lean on Me would take place on roughly the 20th of January and this fic would be on roughly the 26th. Does anyone know the official timeline so I can confirm if I'm way off or not?  
> Thanks so much for reading guys. Your kudos and comments have made this all the more fun to write.


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